Eastern Vagabond

Essays on travel, cities, memory, and the unnoticed textures of the world.

Author: Muhammad Sarosh

  • The Lake

    The Lake

    My mother-in-law had been pining for a trip to the lake since the day she had arrived so we finally decided to drive her up there and spend a night by the lakeside this weekend. It had been a while since I and Fatima had visited the lake anyway so I pushed my workout up from the usual afternoon to early morning and planned to set off after the Friday prayers.

    I like to keep my travel prep simple. The ritual involves going over three things: book, clothes and dress. The perk of traveling with my wife (apart from her cherishable company, of course) is that she takes care of everything else so I only have to worry about the first – a book that would go with the clear lake and skies, in this case. My bookshelf here is in a bit of a crisis since I’ve been lending out more books lately than I’m buying so it was to be a challenge to pick something uniquely suited to the occasion. But I soon realized I was mistaken when I noticed The Sheldon Book of Verse, an anthology of poems, tucked away in a dusty corner for God-knows-how-many years. I plucked out the paperback and took a moment to appreciate its handiness and vintage aesthetic appeal. Published in 1957, no wonder it was a relic from the past.

    As I drove down the M-9, the scenic Kirthar Mountains appeared on the driver’s side. It’s hard to ignore the distinctive mesas (i.e. flat-topped hills) standing solemnly in the barren wilderness. While I saw their distant figures behind the haze of smog every day while commuting back from work, it was a totally different experience to see them up close by the roadside. Ancient vagabonds riveted in space but traveling through time, I thought. For some reason unknown to me, the sight of these mountains in particular, and nature in general, is immensely liberating and awe-inspiring to me, offering a sense of humility and freedom from all that’s trivial. I rolled down my car window to take in the fresh winter afternoon.

    Stock photo of Kirthar Mountains

    Soon the wind turbines were visible on the passenger side. Hashir would be excited to see them but he was already asleep in his grandfather’s lap. As I got off the motorway and headed towards Jhampir, we realized we were snaking through the vast fields of wind turbines on both sides, their blades and towers now too imposing to take in a single glance. It took some five minutes of gentle patting on Hashir’s face to wake him up from the slumber he had drifted into during the past half hour, but the surprised smile that plastered itself on his dazed, still-sleepy face once he saw the giant structures made it worth the effort.

    The link road leading to Jhampir had several cattle farms belonging to Palari and Jakro tribes. A shrine (مزار شریف) would pop up every few kilometers reminding me of what M. A. Yusufi wrote about the shrines of sham saints in Sindh in his book, Aab-e-Gum:

    ان سے متعلق ہر چیز شریف ہے سواۓ صاحب مزار کے

    The road is surprisingly fine compared to what you expect a link road in interior Sindh to be like. But it gets deceptive further ahead as you find suspicious speed breakers in the middle of nowhere that can cause serious damage to your car if you aren’t vigilant. The link road culminates at a bridge over the railway crossing at Jhampir station. We were even able to show Hashir his first train up close while stopping by the same bridge on our way back.

    From there on, it’s a narrow 6 km road to the motel. The road is lined on both sides by acacia and sometimes, date-palm trees particularly as you head closer to the lake. Parchoon shops set up in tiny cabins and manned by stout, thick-mustached Sindhis donning traditional Sindhi caps make for an interesting sight. The peculiar, familiar scent associated with the sea for a Karachiite becomes noticeable much before the lake is even visible. Soon we are driving through the non-descript motel gate. The sun is still well above the horizon. We have managed to reach in time.

    The sun sets opposite the lake which means you can’t photograph the majestic lake sunsets you might have thought to capture on your way here. This can be a bit disappointing until you realize that it also means the sun would rise right above the lake the next morning. After a cup of tea and dinner, and a lot of sky- and lake-watching and mosquito-fighting in between, I snuggled up in bed with my book hoping to wake up to catch the first ray of sun the next day.

    I woke up in the morning twilight an hour before sunrise and headed straight out into the cold in my T-shirt and pajamas, anxious not to miss a single moment of the miracle that is a false dawn. Soon the fishing boats start to appear in distance; fishermen starting their day, rowing and setting up nets. Despite the biting cold none of us was prepared for (except me since my wonderful wife had packed in a hoodie), we gathered on the lawn in anticipation of the sunrise.

    The sun came up slowly and majestically from under the lake. Picture and video credits go to my sister-in-law who is a shutterbug and maintains an impressively artistic social media presence. Everybody basked in the warm sun while I and Fatima made breakfast in the rickety motel kitchen. In just a couple hours, the sun was high up in the sky and the lake began to simmer sending us back to our rooms. With the monumental event of the day over and the temperatures rising steadily, there was little else to do at the motel except pack our bags and get going.

    While the narrative of the story ends, the reflections, too many to recount here, demand a sequel which I will be writing shortly. Until then, Ciao!

  • Paper Boats

    I have four tabs open in Chrome. A Google Slide for a presentation coming up at work next week, a paper on macro-human factors in aviation maintenance that’s going to help me with that, a dense Cambridge university publication exploring the relationship between Marxism and Islamic Mysticism that I might give up reading halfway through, and Ghulam Ali’s rendition of Nasir Kazmi’s ghazal Dil mein ek leher si uthi hai abhi on Youtube; his vocal cords doing justice to the word, leher (wave), in eight different styles sweeping me away as if on eight musical waves.

    It’s already 10.30 pm; this day will end like all others. I just want to remind myself that it was a splendid day. What could be more splendid than a bowlful of Nihari for dinner with all its traditional condiments anyway? And a lovely family who’s visited from across the other side of the country to put some life into your painfully expansive apartment?

    I just wish I had spoken up at work when it mattered. When the self-righteous seniors were decimating the junior first-timer on the rostrum, my appreciation of his presentation could have gone a long way for him. But it was too hard to speak up then. And it’s harder still to forgive myself now for having taken the easier path. I think I’ll remember this pain and do what’s right the next time it matters. The world suffers a lot. Not because of the violence of bad people but because of the silence of good people. If not for myself, then for the world out there. I. Will. Speak. Up.

    I have an early morning speed workout with the boys. The competition will start Dec 2 so we don’t have much time left. Every mile is counting now. I have not been in such great shape in the past 5 years and if I sail through the 10,000m race, which I very much hope to, I am packing my bags for the Naltar marathon coming up in Jan next year. That would be exquisite; the master of all adventures. There are lots of ifs and buts at the moment. That I remain injury-free. That my boss understands what running the highest marathon in the world means to me at this point in time and spares me for the month-long high-altitude training preceding the race. They say when something sounds too good to be true, it usually is. Whatever happens, I have something to look forward to and that should suffice for a good night’s sleep.

  • Abandoned Cars

    Abandoned Cars

    My love for abandoned cars is fed by my running in urban areas. These neglected cars parked often in the leftover construction rubble, outside bodywork shops, or just in the roadside garbage dumps Karachi never seems to run short of, make for strangely nostalgic sights. These remind me of the fleetingness of the elaborate drama around us that would someday end without so much as a warning or fanfare, leaving us frozen in time like these rusting cars. When I’m not running against the clock, I like to pay them one final tribute before these are eventually dismantled or sold sheet-by-sheet and part-by-part by street addicts who thrive on such thrilling scavenger hunts abandoned cars can often provide.

  • Saturday

    Ever since I have ramped up my workouts and started a clean diet to get back in race shape (six-pack and all, for laypeople), my cheat day is stretched over an entire weekend during which, given my wife is very skilled at cooking, I can consume anywhere north of 2500 kcal per day. This also means a very regimented diet for the rest of four and a half days of the week (comprising eggs, chicken, minced beef, seasonal fruit and raw spinach leaves) which I survive only because I can see the light at the end of the long dark tunnel i.e. Bombay Biryani in Friday lunch.

    Chicken steaks with white mushroom sauce

    This weekend, however, was not just about biryani, ras malai, steaks, and other delectable treats because I had quite cleverly planned a long run on Saturday to make up for the ravenous eating and manage the guilt for my extra-long cheat ‘day’ (read: weekend). The track where I ran my 15 km is basically a dirt trail in the middle of nowhere which I have been running on, and meaning to write about, for the past two years.

    Chicken bread masterfully baked by my wife and Netflix

    The trail is lined on both sides with wild grass and thick green shrubbery which is home to flocks of mynahs, crickets, jackals, and at times, Russel’s vipers and sand-colored scorpions. Evidently, with so much wildlife around, the track can only be run with your natural human instincts on guard. Usually, I run the trail in evenings, and sometimes, when I fail to finish a long run before sunset, I can see giant lizards slithering out of the thick bushes on both sides into the open. When a cool breeze blows through the wild grass, it makes a sweet sound – a mixture of the hissing of a snake and the melody of a running stream. A long, deviant branch of a stout shrub that extends onto the trail can often look like a cobra ready to uncoil on its victim and, hence, startle me in my tracks. Apart from these thrills, however, the trail is otherwise beautiful. It offers expansive, unobstructed views of the dramatic sunset skies and its earthy quality makes you want to return for more joint-friendly runs.

    Posing shyly on the trail. Shrubbery starts a few miles ahead of this point.

    Needless to say, I like this trail; it allows me to unplug for a while and get a feel of what it must be like to be a prehistoric man. As I have been shaking off the bonds of technology lately, I am finding myself being more mindful of my surroundings. These exhilarating trail runs, I believe, are a continuation of the same pursuit of freedom that I have been hoping to instill in my 30s.

    More on this in some other blog. Ciao!

  • Longing for Kashmir

    Upper Neelum

    It was 8 Oct, yesterday. Exactly a year ago, we had left Islamabad for a fantastic trip to Kashmir. From my son to his great-grandparents, there were four generations of my family packed in a 14-seater brand-new Mitsubishi coaster that sailed effortlessly through the scenic mountains of the Northern Areas. The memories of that trip have recently been tantalizing me to plan another trip to the North. As a tribute to the Kashmir trip, my sister-in-law made a melodious montage and I translated my poem, Cooling Vesuvius, into Urdu. I wrote it while having a cup of tea with my wife in a ramshackle dhaba by a road in Muzaffarabad that snaked up to the tomb of St Chinasi.

    تمہارے ساتھ ایک کپ چائے
    مجھے فرینک او ہارا کی مشہور نظم یاد دلا رہی ہے
    ‘‘Having a Coke with You’’
    اکتوبر کی یہ خنک ڈھلتی شام
    دور نارنجی افق پر
    ہمالیہ کے عظیم پہاڑوں کے نقوش ثبت کر رہی ہے
    اور ہم
    تاریکی میں ڈوبتے حسین سائرس بادلوں
    اور ان پر دھیرے دھیرے طلوع ہونے والے  نۓ چاند
    اور شاندار شمالی ستارے کے  نیچے
    اپنی پیالیاں تھامے
    جھلملاتے مظفر آباد سے کوسوں اوپر
    مسحور کھڑے ہیں
    ہمارے چینی مٹی کے برتنوں سے اٹھنے والی بھاپ
    ہماری گرم سانسوں کے سرد دھوئیں میں ضم ہو کر
    خوبصورت خط و خال بنا رہی ہے
    جیسے دور کوئی ہوائی جہاز
    ایک کہنہ مشق مصور کی مانند
    آسمان میں سفید لکیریں کھینچ رہا ہو
    ہمارے ساتھ سے گزرتی، بل کھاتی یہ سڑک
    جو پیر  چناسی کے مزار تک جاتی ہے
    مجھے نیپلز میں واقع
    کوہ ویسوویئس کی چوٹی تک جاتی
    ایک ایسی ہی سڑک کی یاد دلاتی ہے
    وہی ویسوویئس
    جس کے آتش فشاں نے ہزاروں سال پہلے
    بدکردار پومپی کو دفن کر دیا تھا ۔
    شاید تم سوچتی ہو گی
    کہ ہمارا تعلق بھی
    اسی ویسوویئس کی طرح
    دھیرے دھیرے سرد پڑ رہا ہے
    جسے اب اس کے دامن میں واقع
    نیپلز کا پر آ شوب شہر بھی
    کوئی خطرہ نہیں گردانتا
    اگرچہ ماہرین ارضیات اب بھی ویسوویئس کو ‘فعال’ کہتے ہیں۔
    ایک فعال آتش فشاں کیا ہی اچھا ہے
    اگر اس سے کوئی ڈرتا نہیں ، تم سوچتی ہو گی ؟
    مگر میرا خیال ہے
    ویسوویئس بہرحال  ویسوویئس ہے۔
    ٹیررھنین سمندر کے ساکن پانیوں کے ساتھ
    نیپلز کے ساحل پر ایستادہ
    ایک منفرد، دیو مالائی پہاڑ
    جسے اپنی عظمت ثابت کرنے کے لیے
    راکھ اور شعلوں میں بھڑکنے کی ضرورت نہیں ۔
    یا ہو سکتا ہے تم ٹھیک سمجھتی ہو
    ہم شاید واقعی بدل چکے ہیں
    جوشیلے محبت کرنے والوں سے  اچھے دوستوں میں ۔
    اگر یہ سچ  بھی ہے تو اس میں کوئی مضاُقہ  نہیں
    مجھے واقعی یہ زیادہ پسند ہے۔
    کیا تمہیں نہیں ؟

  • Quiet

    Lately, I have been running out of things to write. I am drowning in my own daze. It’s almost peaceful, like death. I guess it’s one reason why people drift towards it; one less word at a time. Until their radical thoughts have dumbed and their wildest imaginations cowered into utter silence, or whimpering Yes, sirs. I’m not talking about the physical death here, of course; it’s not a choice anyway. But the death that most of us meet in our lives; that stills us, turns us into observers, into the audience of a fascinating match, of a scrolling screen, of a rolling routine, of a mindless race that never ends before its runners.

    Bukowski’s thundering voice just got me this weekend. Loathing life is, perhaps, not enough of an excuse to stop living it.

    You can’t beat death but

    You can beat death in life, sometimes,

    And the more often you learn to do it,

    The more light there will be.

    So I have decided to write more frequently about anything that catches my attention, intrigues, bores, repels or fascinates me. I’m no longer seeking to write a blockbuster poem or a scholarly essay or a literary piece anymore. It only inhibits the process of expressing which was also the founding idea behind my blog.

    Today, I want to write about Nadir. He works menacing afternoon and night shifts. People are mean to him. He gets plenty of mouthfuls at work. Yet that doesn’t seem to impact the positive energy he carries around him. His cheerfulness has miraculously survived the most discouraging of circumstances. He is original, straightforward, and not afraid to speak the truth. He is a true embodiment of what my grandmother says about happiness, Don’t search for it outside; it springs up from within you.

    Yesterday, I ran into him while his afternoon shift was nearing the end. The sun had long set but he was in his usual high spirits as he greeted me with a powerful, singsong salaam. I could tell it was not like dozens of other loud, constipated salaams that my subordinates had reluctantly showered at me during the day to confirm their servitude. It was a genuine greeting that one extended to someone, one was pleased to meet. After signing off some documents, I asked him what date it was. He said, It’s 6 Oct, sir. My birthday.

    I was startled at his openness. He had turned 31. We were age fellows. I did not tell him that I was surprised to see in him the remarkable positivity a 31 year old, working menial shifts away from home could preserve. He gave me hope in myself and faith in my grandmother’s wisdom. I sent him a cake wishing that he would keep his torch burning in the darkness that engulfed us. Just like the bright half-moon illuminating the sky outside.

  • Genter

    The instructor wrote ‘Genter’ on the whiteboard as some sort of innovative shorthand for ‘Generator’ which left me wondering if he had just accidentally coined the manliest word ever. Gent-er. Like butcher, fighter; only manlier. Perhaps at par with lumberjack and cowboy.

  • A Walk in the Jamshed Quarters

    Saadat was not an easy catch.

    Ever since he had left, he appeared to be on the run. Away from the familiar faces. From the dreadful “whys”. From a hauntingly good career that was bad in personal ways. From himself. Toward himself.

    It took me half a dozen attempts to eventually get him to see me over a cup of tea one weekend last month. The plan was to catch up on the past year and a half in my favourite place in Karachi, the TDF Ghar rooftop cafe, while watching the metropolitan sunset skies spanning over the bustling MA Jinnah Rd. As I showed up ahead of time to make a reservation, I was barred from going upstairs by a barista saying Saturdays were family-only. I chuckled to him that he’d sure as hell let me in if I paired up with one of the girls roaming about. He nodded back in all seriousness leaving no doubt in our deal being a no-go tonight.

    Saadat showed up almost on time in khakis and a tartan plaid button-down, carrying his usual charismatic smile, looking cheerful and vivacious; certainly not a deer in the headlights. I have visited old friends before, only to find out I did not recognize them anymore but Saadat was a relief to see. People perhaps take longer to change beyond recognition. It’s perhaps even selfish to expect they wouldn’t change when we don’t have the faintest idea of what’s going on in their lives. I cleared up my head clouding with philosophical queries. I had to be in the moment. For the sake of this rare weekend away from work, the sunset smelling of sea and life, the streets of old Karachi before me as inviting as a ripe woman and an old friend who’s still recognizable!

    Now that our evening tea in the cafe was down the drain, I remembered I had a shoe to be mended so we took off in the labyrinthine streets under the lavendar skies of Jamshed Quarters in search of a road-side cobbler. Our mundane conversation happened in the music of silencer-less bikes sputtering away, birds getting noisy on a tree beside a street-shrine of sorts and the melodious azaan for Maghreb prayers. Under the curious stares of street dogs, loafing teens and disapproving worshippers, off we walked and wondered if cafes and their expensive food were any better than the poetry of the narrow streets and the twilight shadows floating through them.

    Besides being a friend, Saadat has been a really interesting character to me ever since he has taken “the decision”. The way he risked his comfort, security and status, basically all he had deservedly achieved in his early twenties, over a ‘turn of pitch-and-toss’ is reminiscent of the poem “If” by Rudyard Kipling. He wouldn’t have someone dictate their terms to him which is quite bossy, if you ask me, and manly if you ask Kipling. It’s something that sets him apart from the crowd. I value this rarity in a man.

    Anyway, as the twilight gave way to the pitch dark of the night, and the familiar shadows started lurking in distance, we decided to call it a night. As long as he’s here, I look forward to seeing him as often as I can, or not at all if he can’t; but I’m more interested in preserving the endless meetups and conversations we have already had. They hold enough drama and humor to last a lifetime; as long as I’m able to preserve.

  • Rat Race

    Rats are not dumb.

    They race into sewage tunnels

    to escape ominous predators

    lurking in the backstreets

    like cursed shadows of death;

    they nudge and bite and trip

    and screech and claw at each other

    in an ugly frenzy that ends

    in a mutilated body

    on a bad day.

    They race

    only to make sure

    it’s not theirs.

    What do you race for?

  • Cooling Vesuvius

    Having a cup of tea with you

    in a ramshackle dhaba by the road

    reminds me of Frank O’ Hara’s iconic poem,

    ‘Having a Coke with You.’

    The cold dusk has just fallen

    upon the October Himalayan mountains

    casting their shapeless silhouettes against a lavender sky,

    and upon us

    as we hold our cups

    over the glittering city of Muzaffarabad

    and gaze into the darkening cirrus afar,

    a new moon rising above them and the majestic North star,

    reflecting on the beauty of this fleeting moment.

    The gray steam rising from our porcelain cups

    merges in the condensation of our winter breaths

    creating patterns envied by

    jet contrails and shooting stars.

    The metallic road by our side

    snakes up to the shrine of the Saint of Chinasi

    reminding me of a similar road in Naples

    that leads up to Mount Vesuvius’ top

    whose raging volcano once buried

    the debaucherous Pompeii alive.

    Perhaps you think

    that in our three years of togetherness,

    we have slowly cooled off

    just like Vesuvius

    that the bustling Naples

    no longer takes seriously as a threat

    even though the geologists still call it ‘active’.

    What good is an active volcano after all

    that nobody dreads, you might think?

    Likely to blow its top or not, I think

    Vesuvius is still Vesuvius

    towering solemnly over the Naples’ shore

    along the still waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea

    in no need to erupt in ash and flames

    every now and then to prove its power.

    Either that or may be

    you are right after all –

    we have transformed

    from ardent lovers to really good friends.

    I don’t mind if it’s true, in fact,

    I really like it better.

    Don’t you?